Three Haiku – Daily Constitutional at the Office Park

sunny open field
soft, cool air of late summer
and the maple’s shade

bare feet in the grass
daily constitutional
sans electronics

indescribable
the pleasure that comes from just
a moment outside

Henrietta

I remember very little from the years between 1973 and 1980. There’s a simple reason for this, but one that omits a large part of the story. In the years between my birth and our unintentional immigration to the East Coast, I was busy learning how to eat, how to walk, how to use the bathroom, how to dress myself, and how to talk. I was learning about the world that surrounded me, and about my place in it. I was learning what kind of a person I was, and what kind of people had brought me into this world.

In the first decade of the 20th century — a decade variously referred to as the ’00s, the naughts, the oughts, the aughties, and the naughties — the big buzzword in psychological circles was resilience. Resilience was the word used over and over again in the days following the Boston Marathon Bombing of 2013. It’s a word that contains within it a kind of boundless optimism often lacking in the discussion of trauma, PTSD, and recovery from same.

“Resilience” is a word my own mother pulled out during a rather uncomfortable conversation in the drawing room of my partner’s parents’ house one Christmas Eve. I’d asked my mother to tell the story of the chickens who lived in a pen behind our house in Sunnyvale, California — the non-fictitious town of my birth and early childhood. I was fascinated with these chickens, as I was with all animals. I could pet the rabbits in their hutch on the other side of the back yard, and their fur was the softest thing I’d ever felt. I was sure that the feathers of our bad-tempered chicken Henrietta would also prove soft and pettable, and with the boundless optimism of toddlerhood I was sure I could win her over just as I did all the grown-up humans I’d encountered.

Henrietta had other ideas.

As soon as I opened the door of her pen, she began running after me, making evil chicken noises I’d never heard before, her wings akimbo and her sharp little beak ready to peck at my fat little toddler legs. We began a breathless circuit of the back yard. I screamed as loud as I could for my mom, keeping one or two chicken-steps ahead of Henrietta and her wicked beak.

This is where the actual events of the day have probably become blurred by countless retellings, and also by the dominant narrative of my childhood. As Mom tells the story, she stood at the kitchen window and laughed and laughed at the sight of a three-year-old girl being chased by a chicken. My own memory of the event from this point forward is a blurred mix of terror and bewilderment. Where was my mother? I could hear her laughing, but she wasn’t there to protect me. In the mind of a toddler, being pecked by a chicken looms as large and horrific as being mauled by a grizzly. It is perhaps the first time I felt alone and abandoned in the face of terror.

Tiny Gratitudes

  • Sunflowers painted on the ceiling of an ultrasound exam room
  • Getting to an appointment 10 minutes early so I can sit in the car and stop rushing
  • Living in a place where the trees are taller than the buildings
  • Mentholated cough drops: bits of eucalyptus trees born thousands of miles away, soothing my throat and my lungs
  • A tiny white pill that keeps me from breaking into tears every 15 minutes
  • Miracle cures that ease cold symptoms, even if they do need to be taken again and again again
  • The rain washing down the windshield of the car, softening edges and smearing lights
  • The Fort Point Post Office, open 24/7/365, even at 7pm on the Sunday before Christmas
  • Working in an industry where skills matter as much as connections